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She shrugs. “It’s just a lot of money all at once.”

“It needs to be done.” I choose the bundle of soft cream-colored sheets with little green vines that she keeps eyeing from the shelf.

Faye groans, glaring at me. “You’re going to make me spend a fortune.”

I stop in my tracks. “Who said you're spending anything?”

Her glare turns into a frown. “It's my baby.”

“It's our baby.” I release the cart to hold her face between my hands. “Ours, Faye.”

I lean down so my face is only inches from hers. Her breath catches, the sound of the little hitch does things to me. Things I like, but I like everything about this woman. And I know, as the days turn to weeks, weeks to months, months to years, I'll like it even more. I'll like her even more.

I can't wait to live my life with her, to build our family.

I tell her, "You're wearing my ring. You're going to be my wife. This baby is my baby, and I'm going to take care of both of you.”

Her eyes search mine, but I don't release her face.

She whispers, “I have savings.”

“So do I.” I lean in because I can't resist and press my lips to her forehead.

I want to taste her mouth, but not here, not the first time, not like this. But soon, I think.

I release her, leaving her stunned and breathless as I continue down the aisle.

I toss in a couple toys, a pack of soothers, and then, because I read that some babies don't take to specific soothers, I toss in two more packs, two more styles.

The kid has a choice of three so, should be good, right?

A box of diapers follows the soothers. A container of wipes. Infant towels…

When I look back at Faye. She's been pulled, as though by gravity, to a wood-grain crib.

I grin and leave her to it.

18

THE THINGS I DO

DECEMBER 2009 – 20 YEARS OLD

Icrack a can of pop as Faye flips the lid of the pizza box. She mumbled grumpily about wanting pizza while she scarfed down her egg on jam-slathered-toast this morning before work. Then she texted me the pizza emoji around two this afternoon followed by a grumpy face. I figured it was best to see to the craving rather than letting it be, so I grabbed a box on the way home.

“Oh no!” Faye cries, and I peer over her shoulder to see the entire pizza covered in extra black olives. “Did you order half without?”

I did. “It’s all good.”

She twists to look over her shoulder at me, brows wrinkled cutely in concern. “But you won’t eat any.”

“Sure, I will.”

Her shoulders fall. “Tate, you hate olives.”

I love the sound of my name on her tongue. “Hate is a strong word, sweetheart.”

She rolls her eyes with a dramatic huff. She amends, “Okay, you strongly dislike olives.”